~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Lie
Her eyes widened with surprise, and
perhaps anger. He watched her mouth move in repetitious patterns, wet lips
contracting and breathing, with meaning.
“What do you want me to say? What? What
can I say?”
He himself did not know how this started. A
frozen blank expression was all he could muster. The Truth? Was that what he
wanted? He might prefer a well-crafted lie. Nothing preserves a person’s
feelings like a good lie.
Her brow fixed her face into a stern
expression. “I swear you’re making mountains out of mole hills. You know this
can’t be healthy for our relationship. How can you love me and not trust me?”
Cocking her head and folding her arms she locked eyes with him, demanding an
answer; his paralysis proved to be a partial one, as he stammered out a
response.
“I know….” He struggled to control the
shaking in his hands and voice. A rehearsed speech comes in bits and pieces to
his mind. She doesn't even blink.
Her words cut apart his stammering
accusation. “What do you know....? That I was out with Tom last night? Tom LIKES
men.” Something popped in his mind. This might be plausible. Suddenly he felt
like he needed to apologize, to make this better. A panic swept over him. “You
always do this!” Her words were confident and assured and fanned the growing
fires of his fears.
“Wait. Just wait. I’m sorry, I just…
Its…” His voice was noticeably shaky. This is all wrong. Wasn't he the one who
had been wronged? Just run away, run and pretend this never happened. Pathetic.
“He needed someone to talk too, and I didn't want you to tell you because I knew you’d get like this.” Her face was
flushed red. Her lips seemed to move faster and faster. “I think I need some
time to myself to think about things.” She started to turn.
He grabbed her hand. What could keep her
here? “Please… Just wait. I didn't know where you were. I was worried; your
roommate said you were at his place, I just… I’m sorry.” A lie. He was wrong,
he was always wrong. The trembling had
left his voice, but was replaced by a clumsy pleading tone.
She turned. For an instant he saw
surprise, maybe even panic on her face, and then it passed. Those lips were
angrily pursed, her eyes stern and disappointed. “Let me go. Maybe we can talk
about it later.”
He needed to say something. Anything to
make this stop, how can he fix this?
What does she want to hear? Desperation filled his heart. “I can’t lose
you. I was stupid, I’m sorry.” And then it dawned on him. Just tell the truth.
Just own up. “I went through your texts. I’m sorry, he just sounded like he had
a thing for you. I didn't mean too, your phone was just out and I… it…”
A silent glare stabbed into him. “I’ll
call you later.” He let go. Then she was gone. He sunk. The curb is a comfort
to a man dashed in the road. Cold asphalt did not loosen the knot in his gut.
This didn't go according to plan. How could
he fix this?
What happened?
Was a lie what he really wanted to here?
Was the truth more consoling?
Why couldn't he tell the difference?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Glance
Across a room.
Magnetic,
A course assumes,
between
eyes.
Apologetic,
A
beholder gazed.
Stunned and undisguised,
too long, and abased,
he
withdrew from her'
Fierce and Beautiful
Eyes.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Toy Soldiers and Boy Generals
Standing
with complete confidence over-viewing the miniaturized world laid out, my hand
strokes unkempt facial hair.
Four, twenty-something-year-old
boys, stand around a table playing with toy soldiers. The dirty basement
littered with paint, plastic and garbage fade from our perception as we
contemplate the game at hand. Between us
is a carefully crafted table, green flock intermingles with sand to form a mock
terrain of grass and dirt. The image is completed with the scattering of
meticulously miniature ruins, forests, craters and trenches to create the
illusion of a grand battlefield. Paint
fumes fumigate from a corner where one of these grown children works with
dedication on coloring a freshly built model tank.
My
focus concentrates on one point of the table, a battle line arrayed with
similar completed tanks, surrounded by individual model soldiers, each built, painted
and customized with care. Reaching for a tape-measure, I move the pieces the
allocated distance with the precision of a general. Satisfied with the movement of my troops I
flip through one of the dozens of rule books involved in this gratuitously over-complicated game of chess. My opponent gathers together a handful of dice and carefully
rolls them in a clear region of the battlefield. With the odds in his favor I grimly remove
several of my own models who have just died in a well-placed explosion. Cotton patches, painted to
appear as smoke and fire replace a model tank with another well rolled bunch of
dice. All goes according to plan. Odds determine the winner of this game, every
time a dice is rolled it is supposed to simulate another battlefield action. A
solider throwing a grenade, a man sprinting, a tank breaking down, the courage
of man standing alone as his comrades are killed, all are taken into account
with hundreds of pages of rules. The amount of time it takes to learn this game
keeps its enthusiast to an eccentric and dedicated few.
The
battle has reached a critical point, tensely, the mock generals convene. Murmurings
are passed from ally to ally; subtle pointing to rules on page and table areas
keep concealed the plans from the enemy. As a consensus is reached troops are
boldly re-positioned I look over to a comrade to gauge his reaction, nodding
reassuringly. Resting my hand on the fuzz of the fake grass, I try and blot out
the noise of my family upstairs. Analyzing the odds of our success, I order an
unexpected counter attack moving from cover into flanking positions. With the
rolling of the dice, my opponent’s squirm in the angst of anticipation. The
risks paid off as my men storm into position.
Complete
concentration is shattered as my phone sounds from across the clutter of the
unfinished basement. With the flipping open of the phone and a quick glance at
the caller, work, responsibility and reality flood back into my awareness. No
longer the general of the grand army before him, I realize I will likely be
late to work if I am to finish this 3 hour game.
But
victory is so close at hand….
And I close the phone, and with it the rest of the real
world; At least for the next hour.
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